


The Game is My Feet

by PatPrecieux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild D/s & consensual bondage, sappy and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 17:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/pseuds/PatPrecieux
Summary: Sherlock's problem becomes John's. The good Doctor has the perfect cure.





	The Game is My Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Evidently having the "The World's Greatest Sock Index" doesn't make "The World's Only Consulting Detective" immune to having a bad case of cold feet, in more ways than one.

"In the goddamn Thames again, Sherlock? Is there nothing else you can find as an acceptable hobby for your bloody boredom? And it's not good enough you try to drown yourself, you insist on dragging me in with you EVERY TIME!"

Caught midway between a cough and a sneeze, Sherlock continued to drip on the sitting room rug at Baker Street, and despite his discomfort, couldn't resist his usual snark. "Why John, would you expect anything less? As I've told you numerous times, I'd be lost without my blogger and boyfriend."

"Well THIS blogger and boyfriend might not object to you GETTING lost if it keeps me out of the river and dry! For Christ's sake, get out of those clothes and into a hot shower."

Feigning hurt, Sherlock stuck out his lower lip and pouted. "Surely you can't object to my allowing you the first wash, as there YOU now stand clean and warm."

"Course not you git, but I thought you'd take the enormously long five minutes I selfishly used the tub to at least remove your oozing bespoke suit, and WHY are you still wearing your shoes? Shit Sherlock, how can someone so smart be so helpless?"

John marched forward and started vigorously stripping the sodden garments off the detective, who responded coyly, "So, you think I'm smart do you?"

The ex-soldier stopped dead in his tracks, eyes narrowing, "Oh no, you wanker! You're not turning this into a sex game. You're soaked in contaminated water, stink like a sewer and are inviting pneumonia or worse. You, young man, are going to march yourself right into that loo and stand under hot water until you look like a ruddy prune. Go!"

The sharp smack he planted on Sherlock's arse as incentive proved to be less than satisfying as it resulted in Thames slime spraying back on his newly washed hands and face. Hearing the water running in the bath, John sighed as he did a makeshift second wash in the kitchen sink. Looking toward the ceiling, the blogger shook his head ruefully, "Remind me again, Watson, why it is that you love him? Yeah I know, you just do."

***~~~***

Since the afternoon's "exercise" had ended with the apprehension of a very bad man, that small row would have been the end of it until Sherlock decided to snuggle. Being too knackered to dress again, John had stayed in his heaviest flannel robe which Sherlock delighted in disparaging as "a moldy old Army blanket with buttonholes". Forgoing tea and going straight for two hot toddies, he sat on the sofa and propped his aching legs up on the coffee table. Soon Sherlock was beside him.

The taller man seemed genuinely grateful for the drink and thanked his boyfriend with a sweetly passionate kiss. It was starting to remind John of the many reasons he DID love this madman. Then, Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and tucked his feet under John's warm and very bare thighs.

John Hamish Watson was not a man to scream like a little girl, but he came damned close. " Jesus Holmes, your feet are like ice. Get those frozen blocks away from me!"

"I only want to cuddle, John. You're the one always encouraging me to be more openly affectionate."

"Giving your lover hypothermia and a possible heart attack is not being affectionate actually, and if I'd been drinking my whiskey, you might have added severe burns to the list, you child. Never mind that you have "the world's greatest sock index" not to be sullied by mere mortal man. You can't be arsed to put on a pair to remedy your problem. Oh wait, that's right. "Mister to the Manor Born Boy" only has the finest silk socks, not much help in the way of staving off frostbite. Right then, I'm getting a pair of my heavy woolen socks and you are going to wear them."

Sherlock gently removed his feet from under John, and before he could react, crawled like a stalking cat into John's lap. "You can't really expect me to wear those abominations. The roughness on my delicate skin alone would be the end of me."

"I can think of several ways to end you right now, Sherlock."

Kissing THE spot under John's ear, he purred, "I can think of a much better way to warm us up darling."

Expecting a scolding, Sherlock was startled and a bit off balanced by his lover's easy surrender. "Now there's an idea I can get behind."

"Behind, in front, on top of- any which way you like it, Captain."

John grinned lasciviously and licked his lips, "Very well, Holmes, move out."

***~~~***

Whenever they played this way, Captain Watson was clearly in charge, but not before what Sherlock considered a tedious amount of "pre-ejaculate" negotiation. Today, however, John had cut to the chase with admirable speed, seemingly as anxious as Recruit Holmes. Soon Sherlock found himself comfortably but securely tied, wrists and ankles, to the bedposts.

He often teased John about the embarrassment the older man had suffered in trying to explain to Hudders why they had chosen to select a new style of bedroom furniture. For her part, Martha had only snorted, a sound both men didn't think to ever hear come from their surrogate Mum. Taking a large swig of her "herbal soother" she had simply deadpanned, "Not surprised in the least boys, what with the way you two were so keen on the Gymnastics competitions at those Olympics here. Exercise is just the thing to keep you in form for chasing down all those arch enemies."

Now the main event involved John warming up by working Sherlock from neck and nipples to knob and knees till he had reached a fever pitch. At that point, patience ended. "Do move things along John, you're not getting any younger."

Climbing off the long pale body underneath him, John walked to the end of the bed. "That's true innit? Fact is though, while I'm NOT getting younger, your feet aren't getting any warmer either. Let's see if we can't do something about that, yeah?"

Sherlock smirked, "Any excuse for you to indulge your toe sucking fetish Captain."

"Sorry pet, but I'm not really in the mood for ice lollies today." He stretched his fingers, smiled and reached for Sherlock's feet.

Frantically tossing, Sherlock yelped, "John Hamish Watson, don't you dare!!"

It was a weakness John seldom exploited because his lover really didn't enjoy it, but needs must. Less than a minute of intensely energetic tickling and Sherlock was ready to agree to almost anything. "John, please, please stop."

This time, taking a firm hold of the much warmer toes, John chuckled. "Going to wear warm socks for me then, love?"

What looked to be a brewing strop was instantly pushed aside by two thumbs threatening the high arches of the over sensitive feet. "I promise John, but not those horrid woolen things, I beg you."

His heart melted by the heaving chest, and tear filled puppy dog eyes, the Captain offered a unilateral peace. "Fair enough, sweetheart. I promise to find you socks that you'll be happy with, IF you will wear them... without complaint."

"That's asking a great deal, but perhaps with the proper motivation, Sir."

The filthy blow job that followed was a blessing and a bane all at once. The blessing came in the guise of an orgasm so strong, Sherlock no longer entertained any ideas of a tantrum. The bane followed, as said orgasm lead to the exhausted, sated detective passing out cold. The erstwhile "Olympic hopeful" Watson was forced to abstain from both his desired mount and dismount and had to be satisfied with a rather anticlimactic wank in the loo. All the same, he felt victorious.

By the time Sherlock had regained consciousness four hours later, John had found and ordered the perfect foot warmers for the man he sometimes tolerated, but always adored.

***~~~***

The package arrived in less than two days after John had paid an obscenely large rush shipping fee. Partly from enthusiasm, but mostly in dread of more intimate contact with the toes of terror, the doctor found he didn't mind the cost. Sherlock was well worth any price.

The blogger knew better than to try and impress his fashion plate boyfriend with fancy wrapping or frilly bows, so he settled for sitting them both in their chairs and simply presenting the plain brown wrapper box as it arrived.

"John, these aren't pornograpic in nature, for example tube socks shaped like a penis in a rainbow of colors, or worse yet, socks covered in pictures of puppies and kittens?"

"No, brat. I did say I'd get you ones you would enjoy wearing. Do I ever lie to you?"

Sherlock had the decency to blush, "Never, although I don't understand why, since I have often omitted details or perhaps obfuscated in return."

"Obfuscated is it? Just open the package."

Whatever Sherlock had expected, what he found was nothing like it. Inside were eight pair of socks, one for each day of the week and, apparently, one in case of accident or stepping in, ahem, bodily fluids of a sexual nature. Each pair bore a matching message both across the soles and insteps. Each sock read "I AM" followed by one of the following words : AMAZING, BEAUTIFUL, BRAVE, BRILLIANT, A GREAT BOYFRIEND, SPECIAL, SEXY, and LOVED.

When no movement or words followed, John feared he had made a severe error in judgment until, suddenly, he found Sherlock on the floor laying his head on the doctors knees. "You like them love?"

Sherlock looked up with pure joy, " They're wonderful John. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but you have made me WANT to wear heavy white socks. If Mycroft ever finds out...."

Pulling Sherlock up to straddle his thighs, John made a sour face, "I seriously doubt the subject of your socks is of any interest to your dear brother, but your secret is safe with me. Now if it's not too inconvenient, I'd appreciate a rather lengthy snog session, baby."

"You did not just call me baby! I'll have you know I...." Sherlock found even HE couldn't protest with a snakelike tongue slithering around his in willing mouth.

***~~~***

For nearly a week, John found himself equally amused and enchanted by his lover's complete infatuation with his new socks. First wearing them in pairs as intended, he then experimented in self promotion, mixing them so his feet were praising him as being both sexy and brilliant or amazing and beautiful. John was sure the tosser had deduced every possible combination to stroke his own ego, and the doctor was, frankly, delighted.

After one blissfully perfect day, interrupted only by Sherlock dashing off to parts unknown for an hour or so, John was feeling too mellow to even question his lover ordering a romantic dinner from Angelo's complete with candle, wine and cannoli. So when elegant long fingers beckoned him to their bed, he was more than willing to make the sacrifice.

Always careful to keep the ugliness of the real world out of their lovemaking, there were a few things that could not be ignored. As much as Sherlock enjoyed and even invited a Dom John and his skill with bondage, the war veteran could not return the favor. Any restraint sent him back to the battlefield or worse, the field hospital where he had suffered the helplessness of the surgical restraints necessary in the treatment of his wound.

Unlike with other matters, Sherlock was attentive to a fault in dealing with John's PTSD. Tonight, however, he tentatively asked John if he could place a soft, loose blindfold over the the doctors gentle eyes. "I trust you love. If that's what you want, we'll give it a go."

"If you don't like it or feel anxious....safeword? Don't argue with me about this."

The older man relaxed into the pillows, "Donovan."

Sherlock groaned, "That...that woman in our bed. Cruel Watson, but extremely effective. Well done. Disgusting, but well done."

The detective spent the next half hour bringing his soulmate to a frenzy. Rather than causing tension, the blindfold allowed John to sink into a euphoric state, his body eager to accept whatever it was given. He was stunned, then, when Sherlock left the bed. 

"Don't distress yourself John, I've not lost focus or devotion, I just want to make sure YOUR feet aren't cold."

In a moment, he felt Sherlock kissing his feet and slipping a pair of warm socks on them afterwards. "You're a daft bugger, but I love you, you know."

"Ta Watson, I'm aware. Now to show you how much I love you too." Without warning Sherlock threw himself astride John and impaled himself on his weeping, throbbing cock. It was so sudden a shock, the doctor was too overwhelmed to even cry out. That changed as Sherlock rode John relentlessly, pushing them both to the edge of climax. Sherlock bent down for deep kisses while at the same time pulling John further in. Thrusting madly against his mate's prostate, the doctor didn't need his sight to sense and savor the intense connection between them.

"Go on then posh boy, take what you need, you amazing, brilliant, beautiful..." 

"JOHN!!", Sherlock shouted in both ecstasy and release. Tenderly, John continued, following his lover to a shattering orgasm. 

For several minutes there was no sound but mingled sighs and fervent kisses. At last, Sherlock raised trembling hands to caress John's face and remove the blindfold. "Hello you."

Blinking in the waning daylight, he swallowed the lump in his throat and whispered, "You, Sherlock Holmes are my heart."

"And you mine, John, as, against all odds, it appears I DO have one."

"A good and true heart, love. Not that I'm protesting mind, but stopping for socks in the middle of mind blowing sex? Really?"

Sherlock's face went crimson as he stammered, "Well, they're a particularly special pair of socks. I had them tailor made for the person I love more than anyone in the world."

"Special, yeah? Move your entitled arse over then, so I can see these undoubtedly haute couture socks."

Like a shy toddler, Sherlock flopped on his side burying his face between John's neck and shoulder. He both felt and heard the gasp from the man beside him. It was just then that Captain Watson had looked down to see a pair of socks emblazoned with the words, "Dearest John, will you marry me?"

Without lifting his head, Sherlock murmured, "If you aren't...if you don't...forget I..."

Grabbing a fist full of lush curly hair, the blogger choked out, "Shut up Sherlock. Yes, you idiot, yes now and forever."

***~~~***

Much later as they held each other by the glowing fire, exchanging languid caresses, John spoke up. "Caught me off guard, pet."

"I've been thinking of asking for awhile, but I kept getting the figurative cold feet."

"So you realized the cure for cold feet was to get a pair of socks? Fantastic you are."

Sherlock's face filled with mischievous glee, "You should have guessed things would end this way, John."

"Why's that, soon to be husband?"

"You know my methods Watson, I never fail to solve the case and get my man. As I always say, The Game is My Feet."

**Author's Note:**

> These socks are a real thing available through catalogues and, at $12.99 a pair-U.S., they can certainly be considered posh enough for "Himself".
> 
> If anyone else has written a "Sherlock proposes with a pair of socks" story, my apologies. Kinda doubt any other brain is as strange as mine though. :)
> 
> To my fellow American friends, Happy Thanksgiving next week. To all you other lovely people, make up your own national holiday where eating till you pass out and watching sports nonstop is the outcome of the celebration.
> 
> As for me, I'm thankful for ALL of you. ♥️ Pat


End file.
